The meaning of Yes
by Night Swept
Summary: Jim's inner angst after his fateful yes, and drifting back into his relationship with Karen


The "yes" in the conference room was supposed to be fatal. Jim couldn't even bring himself to turn his head and look at Karen. He kept his eyes glued to the snow falling outside the window, as if the serenity of that magic scene would cure him of the burning that was eating away at him from the inside. He kept staring out the window while, after an interminable second, she slowly rose and headed for the door, picking up speed along the way. He remained frozen, staying numbly in place until the festivities of the Oscar-turned-Dwight return party encroached on his sanctuary. But then before he knew it she was there, standing beside him as she had so many times before, laughing with him as Dwight did his LAPD impression on that helpless pinata, smiling at him with her eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Honest, caring, playful, warm... beautiful. His chest felt painfully hollow, he was still riddled with doubts, still shell-shocked from the drama of the last year. But that feeling was back-- by God he missed that feeling. For the first time in a very long time, Jim Halpert felt alive.

The feeling did not last. What the hell had happened? What the hell did he just do. It was well after 2AM. Seven days had passed since his epiphany was supposed to have emboldened him, supposed to have given him the strength to venture back towards the woman who held such power over him-- the courage to hang is heart out on the line again for someone he wanted more than anything he had ever wanted before or since. And here he was, lying flat on his back, eyes bolted open. The beautiful olive-skinned distraction, his rebound-girl, was nestled up against his right side, her limbs splayed out gently over his body, her head resting peacefully on his shoulder. Jim had always been amazed at the contrast between the loud, assertive, awake Karen and the pliable, yielding lump of quietly tranquility that she became when sleep overtook her. Karen never made a sound when she was sleeping, and at just under 110 pounds, she slept many an entire night draped easily over Jim without causing him to shift his weight in his sleep and throw her off. It had been a while since Jim had seen Karen sleep this peacefully. 

He had spent the last five nights gently and not-so-gently reassuring her, doing everything he could to win her back. What the hell had he been thinking? Why had he fought so hard to hold onto this relationship that his heart was obviously not in? With one "yes" he was supposed to have removed from his path to pursuing his true happiness two obstacles -- Karen, and his own fearful inhibitions. Jim's grand plan had started to crumble before the Mexican lemonade had run dry. All other things equal, his love of Pam was more than enough to overcome his fear of getting hurt again. He had hung in there for three years against much worse odds than he was facing now. Karen. He did not love her. Not the way he loved Pam. Not even close. She should have been an afterthought in all of this, the rebound-girl is supposed to get dumped after serving her purpose, right? She should not have been able to arouse the passion with which Jim had waged his fight to keep her. Over the last five nights Jim, never one for relationship drama (with one exception), had soothed, reassured, apologized, promised, and soothed some more. The numerous times that a tearful Karen had offered to accept that his heart was not with her and leave with some dignity still intact, Jim had said everything short of "I love you" to reassure her and bring her back. And bring her back he did, from the very edge of a dying relationship to his shoulder, where she lay gently sleeping now in the way that she used to, before she even knew Pam existed.

Jim had never seen her cry. 2 days after his "yes" had fizzled out, Jim sat on Karen's bed and listened to himself cough up some half-true explanation. She sat cross-legged, facing him, her hands nervously gripping a pillow which she held in her lap, her soft green eyes tracking him intently. She wore no makeup, and although she never believed him, Jim had always told her she looked most beautiful that way, with her eyes unmasked and her freckles showing. After about Jim's fifth "I really like you," "I'm glad you're here," platitude, he saw them... tears running down Karen's cheeks. Lots of them -- he could not help thinking of the lone tear he choked back on Casino Night. Karen did shift her gaze away slightly, as she had done when Michael had asked her about her father being a G.I., but she didn't hide her face or wipe her tears. She squeezed her limbs ever so slightly, into a tighter ball around her pillow-- Jim had never seen her look so small, so vulnerable, yet Karen would not turn away. Over 1000 days had passed from the day Jim first felt feelings for Pam and the night it all blew up. Over that time, he had developed quite a knight-in-shining-armor routine. He had perfected the act of riding in to Pam's rescue, saving the day after every Roy-induced trauma, supporting her, building her back up, being her best friend and emotional partner. As Jim instinctively reached out to comfort Karen, she neither recoiled nor allowed him to draw her closer. Rather she slowly moved her tear-laden gaze slightly upwards to meet his eyeline and froze. Jim felt some pangs of pity for Karen at this moment, but it did not overwhelm him. He did not love her, after all. Not the way he loved Pam. Rather, he was overcome by the realization that he was looking at someone with her heart and soul completely exposed-- He had been on the other side of this coin more recently than he cared to remember.

The days at work were sheer torture-- Jim was a guy who needed his sleep, and the draining nights were slowly killing him. The day after the third night, he found himself glancing at her frequently as she worked. She looked sharp and composed, as she always did, but she could not mask the slightest hint of sadness in her eyes. At one point, Jim caught her staring ever so briefly at her little sunglassed-snowman notecard holder thingy... the one she had on her desk back in Stamford and brought with her to Scranton when the offices merged. Karen's father had given it to her. He had gotten it from a vendor at a trade show, and taken it home for Karen. He was a warm man, always looking for nice things, no matter how little, to do for his beloved daughter. Jim didn't know much about Karen's father. Karen had told him that her father lost a battle with cancer when she was 17, and she often spoke of him warmly, but the subject had always made Jim uncomfortable. Karen never lingered on the subject, but Jim knew she would tell him more if he asked, so he didn't ask. If it had been Pam, Jim would have encouraged her to open up to him, to lay her pain out before him so that he could be the one to soothe her. But that was Pam. He watched as Karen looked down at the smiling snowman head and for the briefest moment gave it a little smile back. 

Jim finally had Karen where he wanted her -- sleeping on his shoulder with her old tranquility. He had fought hard for this. Over the course of their five nights of painful dialog, Jim had finally began to humanize her-- appreciate her for more than the fact that she wasn't Pam. Karen stirred gently, and without moving her limbs, tightened her tiny body around Jim ever so slightly. She had slept beside him the last four nights, but she had been uncharacteristically fidgety in her sleep, her breathing sounding labored and occasionally letting out a barely audible mewling sound. Not tonight, though. Jim knew he had her back. He knew she felt safe in his arms once again. He lay awake, however, his eyes wide open. How could he sleep now? Why couldn't he just have let her fade away? He did not love her, after all... not like that.


End file.
